Bleak September
by Butcher Jones
Summary: [River's Edge] A short vignette of Layne's thoughts before John tells him what he did to Jamie. Sort of a metaphorical description of the friendship between John and Layne with some slightly slashy undertones.


Author's Note: River's Edge fic-- does anybody else write for that? This is sort of a re-write of the scene where John tells his friends that he killed Jamie; in this case he tells Layne (or Lane?) first rather than all of them at school, as in the movie. It made sense in my head, seeing as Layne seemed to be the closest to John (although it was rather one-sided). This has some slashy subtext to it if you use your imagination. Also it was intended to show some of the undertones of Layne and John's friendship (if you've seen the movie you know what I mean) but that message might have gotten lost somewhere along the way.  
  
***  
  
BLEAK SEPTEMBER  
  
Layne shifted on the sidewalk, his boots scraping the rough concrete as he turned his head to stare down the empty road in search of John. His friend had called about a half hour before, waking Layne from his dreams to tell him to meet him here, claiming he had something important to tell him. Layne couldn't imagine what could possibly be so important that it required him to leave his cozy nest amongst his blankets and tattered mattress, but if John said it was important it probably was, so he had dragged himself out of that private bubble and out here into the cold, wintry reality. He intended on driving over, but his car had refused to start that morning—probably from the cold—so he had walked down here on foot. 'This sure as hell better be good,' he thought to himself sulkily, kicking at the edge of the curb with his right boot, feeling a vague sense of satisfaction at the sound of the rotten concrete crumbling away.  
  
He raised his head to stare across the street at the blank, dark windows of the house nestled there. The morning reflected that blankness, the air so crisp and cold he was sure it might shatter at any moment. The wind was not nearly as fragile, however, and picked up with a nasty, biting edge, ruffling his hair as it smoothed across the back of his neck. He shivered at the sensation, bringing a hand up to the spot absent mindedly. He had in fact been shivering for some time now, although whether that was from the cold or the effects of the oddly sensual touch of the wind, he wasn't sure. Either way, there was something strange about this morning, something vaguely off-balance, and his inability to identify what it was had set his nerves on edge.  
  
The sky was plated with rain clouds and Layne found himself glancing from those amorphous gray shapes to the street around him. The peculiar dim light made the houses lining the road seem that they were rendered in black and white. Layne found that oddly befitting of the little town.  
  
A shudder passed through his bones and he drew his jacket closer around his narrow frame. He wished John would hurry his ass up so he could get in out of the cold, but he knew full well that John wouldn't arrive until he was good and ready, no matter how much he was needed.  
  
Sighing, Layne pulled his hands from his pockets and began fiddling with the last button on his jacket. The metal button felt cold even to his numb fingers, and something about that made him feel suddenly sad, a melancholy touch to this already gloomy day.  
  
Layne shook his head, snapping out of the strange mood that had settled over him in that brief moment. A brown station wagon distracted him from his atypical ponderings as it rolled into his view; the driver flicked a cigarette butt out the partly-open window into the street before driving on. Layne stared down at the still-smoking cig, his lips parting slightly as he drew in a slow breath, watching the tobacco as it sizzled red-orange on the black street. For a moment he could almost feel the warmth of the embers heating his skin, chasing away the demons of the frigid morning, but all too soon the glowing flame fizzled out into bits of charred paper and tobacco, the ashes carried off by a passing wind in an almost playful manner. He exhaled heavily, his breath rising in front of him in a cloud of mist that stung his skin when it touched against him. Still the experience brought a smile to his lips, stirring in him a sort of childish fascination at the feeling. The same melancholy feeling he had previously experienced came over him again, as he realized that that always seemed to be the case with him—pleasure invariably entwined with pain.  
  
Something brushed against the back of his neck, moving up beneath the fringe of his hair—not the wind this time. Layne jumped and turned around, finding himself staring into the dark irises and empty pupils of none other than John. The man smiled at him, a gesture that seemed almost predatory—whether by accident or intention Layne wasn't sure. "Hi," Layne murmured, more out of reflex than anything.  
  
The smile fell from John's face, replaced by something darker, an expression Layne couldn't quite place. "I need to talk to you. I need to tell you something."  
  
That feeling was back, than inexplicable nervousness growing deep in his guts. He started to say something but John interrupted.  
  
"Not here," he said, and gave a sort of half-glance over to the right of them. "Let's go back to my place."  
  
Layne's immediate doubts were pressed lower, overtaken by the thought of John's warm house. Whatever John had to tell him, he could tell him there, in the secluded darkness and away from the biting wind. Hands in his pockets, he followed him into the warmth.  
  
***  
  
Please excuse me if this sucks. Reviews are appreciated. 


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